Page 17 of Icy Pucking Play

The fitted navy polo and white skort are clearly high-end, though something about the way she keeps tugging at the back of the skort suggests they don’t belong to her.

Her dark hair is pulled back in a neat ponytail, and she's got a visor on.

Too bad she's holding her driver like it might bite her.

"She doesn't golf, does she?" Mike asks quietly.

"Not even a little."

"And you're letting her play anyway?"

I shrug, trying to seem more nonchalant than I feel. "She wants to talk about the feature she's doing on Ryland."

"Right. The feature." Mike's knowing look makes me want to check him into the boards, even though we're nowhere near ice. "That's why you keep staring at her legs."

"I'm not…" I stop as Sophie bends over to pick up a dropped tee, the skort rising just enough to reveal more of her toned thighs. I can't help but imagine how they would feel wrapped around me. "Shut up, Callahan."

"You know," he continues, clearly enjoying this, "this is the first time I've seen you look at someone like that since…"

"Don't."

His expression softens. "It's been three years since Chelsea, Evan. Don’t you think…”

"We're not having this conversation." I grab my clubs. "Especially not here."

"Fine, fine." His laugh follows me as I head over to help Sophie before she hurts herself or my equipment. "But for what it's worth? The Sophie I remember from her internship isn't anything like Chelsea."

He's right, of course.

Where Chelsea was calculated ambition wrapped in designer clothes, Sophie is genuine enthusiasm in borrowed golf gear. Where Chelsea saw my career as a stepping stone, Sophie...

Well, I'm not sure what Sophie sees. And that's part of the problem.

"Here," I say, reaching around her to adjust her grip on the club. "Thumb goes here, other hand overlaps like this."

She freezes at my proximity, and I suddenly realize how this must look—me practically pressed against her back, my hands covering hers on the club.

She's small enough that I could rest my chin on her head if I wanted to.

Not that I want to.

"Right," she squeaks. "Thanks. I knew that. Totally knew that."

"Sophie." I step back, running a hand through my hair. "You don't actually golf, do you?"

Her shoulders slump. "Is it that obvious?"

"You were holding the club upside down."

"Oh God." She turns to face me, cheeks pink. "I'm sorry. I just...I really wanted to talk about the feature, and when you mentioned golf, I panicked and…"

"Decided to fake your way through eighteen holes?"

"More like hoped to survive eighteen holes without maiming anyone." She offers a sheepish smile that reminds me of the way she used to look after accidentally sending me another player’s game stats. "How bad is it going to be?"

I should be annoyed. Should tell her to go home, that lying about golf isn't exactly building trust for this feature she wants to do.

Instead, I find myself saying, "Depends. How fast can you learn?"

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